


The Language of Flowers

by HarveyWallbanger, MillicentCordelia



Series: Melt! [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Hypnotism, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Over-heated Victoriana, Suicide reference, That rapidly becomes dreamy pornography, terrible people doing terrible things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 04:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14276448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillicentCordelia/pseuds/MillicentCordelia
Summary: Tableaux vivants.





	1. Memorabilia

**Author's Note:**

> While Jim is ultimately not averse to what happens, he doesn't actually consent, either. Please use your discretion, Dear Readers.  
> This is a story by Harvey Wallbanger, based on an original scenario by Millicent Cordelia.  
> The heading of the second chapter comes from the song Just Fascination, by Cabaret Voltaire.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

The self is a mystery. Everyone knows that. You know it in order to protect yourself. It covers a failing. Why, if you were totally known to yourself-- how could you go on?  
If Jervis is mad, he is mad from knowing. Unknowing is a luxury to him- too dear! To practice the hypnotist’s art, where others fear to tread is where one must start. Maybe Jervis looked too much, and too hard. Sometimes, now, he thinks that. He thinks that, sometimes, looking at his colleagues. Have they been where he is- or is their madness born of obscurity, alienation from the self? Do they know too much, or too little? Sometimes, he thinks fleetingly that it would be… fun to get inside of them. When it’s more that idle musing, though, he is forced to admit that no part of Jerome really bears examination.   
They say that an unexamined life isn’t worth living.  
Jonathan, however, is courteous. This, Jervis has to admit, covers a multitude of sins. Politeness is the least that any human being can ask of any other. Whoever Gerald Crane truly was- a tyrant- a monster- a visionary- a saint- a weak man with the germ of a brilliant idea- depending upon Jonathan’s mood, he did, at least, raise a well-mannered son. For this, alone, Jervis finds himself quickly warming to Jonathan. Good manners are the extract of kindness. Grace in miniature. The kindness of hard people is the most precious. Jonathan isn’t a doctor, but he is a chemist, has a passing knowledge of anatomy. He sees to Jervis’ wounded hand, makes things to numb the pain. Perhaps it is from gore and broken bone that affection blooms like the graveside rose. This, Jervis doesn’t know. Doesn’t care to know. It is enough to feel. All of this… charms Jervis. It makes him feel soft. Alice allows it. It’s not love, merely an amusement. Of course it isn’t love. Jervis knows love. Love is pain. Love is agony. This is far too sweet.  
Kindness demands kindness, for its own sake, and it feels good to again engage in social ritual. He’s attentive to Jonathan: Jervis holds the door for Jonathan, giving a shallow bow; Jervis inquires as to his mood, takes an interest in his health; gives Jonathan cough drops for the early-spring sniffles that plague him; brings Jonathan cups of hot tea with milk and sugar when Jonathan works into the night; asks if he might be of service as Jonathan conducts his experiments. Always, in the hollow voice, Jonathan says Please, and Thank you. Increasingly, he hesitates. He looks at Jervis for a long time, with those eyes that are both clear and dark, like obsidian mirrors, before murmuring his replies. Alice was like this. When overtaken by feeling, she became shy. It occurs to Jervis that he has no idea how old Jonathan is. Jonathan’s own hints put him anywhere between eighteen and twenty-five. The idea of youth thrills Jervis. New blood like spring sap filling new limbs, climbing into pale green leaves. Beneath the syrup of the sun, a cathedral of verdancy. All of nature’s glory rising from dead matter.  
He takes Jonathan’s gloved hand in his own. Jonathan looks down, the eyes behind the mask unreadable pools, stricken here by light, and here by shadow. Where the light touches is honey; where the shadow touches, deeper shadow, still. As he lets go of Jonathan’s hand, he holds Jonathan’s gaze. He raises his own hand to his mouth. His right hand. His wounded hand. A twitch of Jonathan’s brow. Jervis bites the tip of one finger of his glove. He pulls his hand down, releasing the finger. Another twitch. Another finger. Another. Another. The thumb. He tucks the glove into his breast pocket. His hand now bare, Jonathan’s needlework nested at the center, he eases Jonathan’s hand out of its glove. Attending to his work, he doesn’t look at Jonathan’s eyes. He doesn’t have to, to know that Jonathan is looking at him. Naked, Jonathan’s hand is pale, with long, slim, tapering fingers. The nails are short but ragged, a thin stripe of grime beneath.  
“You have an artistic temperament,” Jervis says absently. Gently, he presses his thumb between Jonathan’s fore- and middle finger.  
Softly, Jonathan laughs. “I’m a scientist.”  
“Oh, but the brilliance which possesses your mind is neither academic nor dry. In your skill, one sees the spark of the alchemist’s art.”  
It’s not a laugh, this time, but an even gentler sound. Amused, but abashed. “I confess, I’ve been curious about how you do it, but I didn’t expect you to lean so heavily on charm.”  
Jervis frowns. “I’m not trying to hypnotize you.”  
“But if you were, what would you command me to do?”  
He feels his frown deepen. He is, he finds, distressed. “It works best, I have found, on weak minds. Not necessarily those wanting for mental vim, but those wanting for discipline. Your mind wants for neither.”  
“You flatter me.”  
Jervis inclines his head. “I speak only the truth.” He’s still frowning. He can’t stop frowning. “Now, it is my turn to confess: it would make this sad heart glad if you would allow me to kiss your hand.”  
Behind the mask, the eyes blink. “Why?” The voice is a breath on a howling wind: a small thing that stands out all the more for being small, rather than being swallowed up.  
“To be close to you. That you might feel my regard for you.”  
“Regard.” It’s not a question, not an uncertainty, but a truth, hard and bitter. “Tell me about your regard.”  
“Merely that you fascinate me, Jonathan. May I call you ‘Jonathan’? You fascinate me, your mind, the things you’re able to do. My own skill is in-born, instinctive; sometimes, I think, little better than something an animal might do. You, however, have mastered a discipline. Now, this, to me, is a mystery.” He feels himself smile.  
Jonathan shakes his head. “That’s not what this is about. That’s not what you want.” Suddenly, he sounds much older, whatever his age.  
“I mean you no harm, I assure you.”  
“Go away,” Jonathan says, “Not all the way away. Just… sit over there for a while. I need to think. I need to work.”  
Jervis nods, and goes to the far side of the room. He watches Jonathan from behind, the stoop of his shoulders, the motion of his hands, as he works. Jervis holds his hand up to his mouth. He leaves his hand bare.  
Some time must have passed, because he’s fallen asleep. He hadn’t noticed it happening. How very soft sleep can be, as merciful as it is capricious. Jervis smiles. It’s Jonathan who’s woken him.  
“I thought about what you said.”  
Jervis sits up straight. “Yes.”  
Wordlessly, Jonathan holds out his hand. It’s bare. Jervis takes it in his own, and presses his lips to the back. Slowly, he turns it over, to kiss the fleshy mount below the thumb. Then, brushing back Jonathan’s sleeve, the wrist. Almost imperceptibly, the muscles spasm, the fingers twitch. The hand would close, would grip.  
Jonathan allows kisses on his bare hands. He allows Jervis a lingering embrace before they retire for the night- or at whatever hour of the day they’re able to chase down repose. He allows Jervis to tell him things; sometimes, quite innocent things, and sometimes, not innocent at all. He leaves on his mask. Jervis still has no idea what he looks like behind it. In a way, this makes it better. Jervis thinks of Cupid and Psyche, la Belle et la Bête. It’s delicate. It’s fragile. If it broke, the pieces would pierce the skin.  
One night, he finds himself again wandering the halls of the place where they now live. If Jerome sleeps, it is the sleep of a fish or reptile: unfathomable, unimaginable, secret. Jonathan has a couch in his laboratory. Jervis, alone, it seems, is concerned with conventional arrangements, with a bedroom and a bed. For all the good it does him. An insomniac since childhood, he now simply has more space to roam in the hours when he should be sleeping. To whom the house once belonged, not a living soul can say. For once, foul play is unlikely: white sheets cover the furniture in most of the rooms, and dust covers the sheets. On some nights, Jervis settles in one room, hoping that a change of scenery will help him rest. Most of the time, he simply walks. If nothing else, the exercise is good for him.  
There’s a strange noise in one of the hallways. It’s a thumping roar, concealed in the walls. Fancifully, Jervis thinks that there might actually be a beast somewhere in the house. A great amber lion with adamant claws and velvet paws. A bird with crystal plumes. A dragon. A wyvern. Jervis follows the sound through many false starts to a bedroom, where its quality changes. It’s a gentle thud, now, running up the ceiling. A heart. A great heart beating. In the room, there’s another door, ajar. Beyond it, a queer light throws undulating wisps of opaline onto the opposite wall. Jervis continues on, becoming aware of a liquid sound. Beyond the door, there will be a lake of polished silver. Strange fish will look at him from beneath its waves with mirrored eyes.  
Slowly, Jervis pushes the door open.  
In a bathroom of milky white, illuminated by milky light, there is a bathtub. In the bathtub, leaning into the curve, is a pale young man with golden brown hair. His eyes are closed. A hand hangs over the edge of the bathtub. The fingers are long, and slim; tapered, like candles.  
Jonathan opens his eyes. Jervis wraps his robe more tightly around himself. Neither takes his eyes off of the other as Jonathan sinks slowly below the edge of the bathtub.

Even though he knows that it wasn’t, Jervis tells himself that it was a dream. It’s more amusing this way. If it was a dream, then this is Jonathan as Jervis imagines him to be. It’s private. It belongs only to Jervis. These are the kinds of things that he likes.  
It’s kinder, this way. If Jonathan wanted Jervis to see, Jonathan would show him. People only show you what they want you to see. Unfortunately for them, they don’t always know that they want you to see quite so much. They tell you things in a secret way. They tell Jervis things that are meant only for him.  
But if it was a dream, it was a dream for two. The waking world opens around it, in reflection of it. Jonathan starts to follow Jervis to bed, permitting himself to be held as he sleeps. Before lying down, he makes Jervis turn his back, as he exchanges his usual mask for a plain black one that only covers his eyes. Upon rising, he makes Jervis turn his back again. When Jonathan sleeps, his gloves are plain black cotton. With one finger, Jervis explores the gap between glove and pajama sleeve. He finds the pulse. He follows it down into a sleep that is shallow, but more complete than any he’s known in years.  
“Aw. Look at the lovebirds,” Jerome creaks and grimaces. With a start, Jervis sits up. Jonathan throws the sheets over his head. “Get it together, kids,” Jerome says, “You’ve got a job to do.”  
Whatever time it is, it is too early. “Rude!” Jervis simply calls after Jerome. That strange, tinny laughter fills the hallway.  
Jervis gets out of bed. He turns around, and covers his eyes with his hands. “I’ve turned around.”  
“Close the door, please,” Jonathan says from under the sheets.  
Jervis closes the door, and locks it. “It’s locked up, safe and sound. Please tell me when I may turn around.” He hears Jonathan slowly get out of bed and dress.  
“Thank you. I’m done, now.”  
It would only be fair to ask Jonathan to cover his eyes while Jervis dressed, but, perhaps perversely, Jonathan’s modesty makes Jervis want to put himself on display. He waits until he’s in a state of deshabille to stretch, arms high over his head, then extended at his sides. He rolls his head back and forth, shows Jonathan his throat. He stands naked in front of the dresser, pretending to be mystified by his socks. He dresses at a leisurely pace. He asks Jonathan to help him with his suspenders. Jonathan’s hands are at the small of his back; they touch him high on his waist. Without being asked, Jonathan buttons his vest, and helps him on with his jacket. He holds Jonathan’s hand in his own, lifts the glove, kisses the wrist. Behind the mask, the eyes have the semblance of the ocean at night. Who knows what monsters live beyond a man’s sight. Jervis quivers with delight.  
What are they to do, Jervis asks Jerome.  
“I need you to distract Jim Gordon for a while.”  
Jervis makes a face. He looks at Jonathan.  
“Don’t kill him, obviously. I’m not done with him yet.”  
Jervis says nothing, merely sips his tea.  
“Oh, don’t be such a sourpuss. He’s going to die. They’re all going to die. But it won’t mean anything if it happens too quickly. You know what that’s like.” Jerome leers. Though, all he can do is leer. “There are some things you only get to do once. Rush to the climax, and you regret not waiting.”  
Jervis rolls his eyes.  
“But we can damage him, can we not?” Jonathan asks.  
“There you go!” Jerome slaps his leg, “That’s the spirit. Damage him! Live it up! Just don’t kill him.”  
“And for how long are we to hold Gordon in our thrall?” Jervis asks.  
“What am I, your supervisor? Use your damn imagination. Play with him all week, if it makes you happy. Take him on a pleasure cruise. Just keep him out of my hair for the foreseeable future.” Then, Jerome gets up from the breakfast table, as though in a huff.  
“It seems that by his whims, we are moved, as by the winds,” Jervis murmurs into his teacup.  
“I’ve made some changes to my formula,” Jonathan muses, “I think that I was able to figure out how Gordon made it wear off, the last time.”  
“How?”  
“Self-hypnosis.”  
“You intrigue me, Mr. Crane; if you would explain.”  
“I’ve done some research- very superficial research- into psychedelics, and the effect of the mind on its own perception of itself. It is theoretically possible to release oneself from the fear caused by the toxin. I don’t know how he did it; I’d have to observe him again. My hypothesis is that Gordon somehow gained sufficient lucidity to realize that his fear was impossible, and for lack of a better phrase, broke the spell.”  
“And you mean to see if he can manage the same trick twice.”  
“Yes. Eventually. What I’d really like is to watch you operate upon him.”  
“I will put myself to the test.”  
If there’s no hurry, there’s no need to forego breakfast. Though, Jonathan, of course, does not eat. He must, sometime, but this, Jervis has yet to see.  
But, then, there is no hurry. Whether it is doom or illumination, the conclusion always awaits- rush toward it, or hesitate.


	2. But If They Knew, You'd Shoot Yourself; A Beast, You'd Shoot Yourself

The one thing you can’t fight is water. You can’t hit it, even though it beats you. It’ll beat you, it’ll batter you, and all the while remain soft, yielding. If you stop resisting, it’ll be kinder. It’ll take you in its arms, cradle you. The end result will be the same. But the way you get there will be much more pleasant.  
It’s the water within. That was what Jim couldn’t fight, the first time that Jervis was in his head. To struggle against it was to struggle against himself. The water knew all of his secrets. It knew what he wanted. All that the water wanted was to give it to him. How could you hate something like that? In its way, it was thrilling. He finally knew himself; he could finally see himself. He didn’t like what he saw, but he didn’t hate it, either. It was just there. All he had to do to repay it, to repay Jervis, for this wonderful new knowledge, was what he really wanted to do, anyway. How he wanted to.  
Well, it’s a little disappointing, now. Maybe Jervis is rusty. Maybe it’s Jim. Something broke in one of them, and the whole ritual doesn’t work anymore. This time, Jim doesn’t have to fight at all. There’s nothing to fight. There’s no water. He’s completely dry.  
Crane’s still a problem, though. He has more tricks up his sleeve than the last time, and Jim got lucky once, but twice-- Twice would be too much. So, he pretends. His body knows what to do. It remembers. What disgusting relief fills Jim when he remembers. He stands at attention, waiting to be told what to do.  
Jervis throws himself into a chair. “As you can see,” he says, “the first plateau of hypnosis is a state of total blankness. One must strip away the inconsequential before one seeks out what one really wants.”  
Crane circles Jim. “Is he aware?”  
“After a fashion. It’s a very elastic state. He knows what’s happening, but he can’t prevent it. He doesn’t even want to. Or, if he’s smart, he won’t try to. I could make him forget everything.”  
“Make him forget,” Crane says, “after we’re done.”  
Jervis stands. “When these, our revels cease, the memories you shall release.”  
Crane takes off his mask. “I want to hurt him.”  
“By all means,” Jervis says.  
“I’m not sure how, yet.”  
“It will come to you.”  
Jim looks down. They’re holding hands. That’s… He forces himself to stay still.  
Jervis laughs. “Oh, you noticed that, did you, Jim? Well, speak, now, or forever hold your peace.”  
“What about Alice?” His voice doesn’t sound like his own.  
“She wouldn’t object. She wasn’t jealous by nature. Unlike some people. Tell me, was it seeing Leslie with another man that made you take away the love that others had? Speak.”  
“Go to hell.”  
Jervis rolls his eyes. “Not very original. Speak.”  
Jim looks at Jonathan. “This is sick,” he says, as gently as he can.  
Jonathan’s voice isn’t so very different without the mask on. “What’s sick is dumping a fatherless sixteen-year-old kid in Arkham. Didn’t you ever wonder what had happened to me? What they were doing to me? Didn’t you know what kind of place it was?”  
“Speak,” Jervis says.  
He has to tell the truth. If he lies, Jervis will know, will see it in the ticking of his eyes, or smell it on him, and then, the game will be over.  
Game?  
“Yes, I knew. I thought that they’d treat you differently because you were a kid. You weren’t dangerous. You weren’t a criminal. None of it was your fault. It wasn’t fair.”  
For a moment, Jonathan looks taken aback. He shakes his head. “It wasn’t.” Jonathan turns, stands close to Jervis, says something that Jim can’t hear.  
Jervis frowns. “Are you quite sure about that?” He looks from Jonathan to Jim.  
“I think it would be interesting.” Jonathan’s face is expressionless.  
Smiling as he does, Jervis turns back to Jim. It’s like watching an automaton come to life. “How close in color is the scarlet of ire to the sweet carmine of desire. Speak, James.”  
The words make sense. A kind of sense. It’s a kind of sense that Jim can’t grasp. It’s within his sight, but beyond his reach. “What the hell?”  
Jervis smiles, looking, for a moment, almost embarrassed. “You know what young people are like. They hunger for novelty. Speak.”  
Again, all that comes: “What?”  
Jervis huffs, looks at Jonathan, who is blank, opaque. “We’re going to do things to you, James. Terrible things. Things that, upon reflection, I realize you’ll probably enjoy. But first, you’re going to tell us what to do. Speak.”  
This time, he only forms the word, but doesn’t say it. He understands, but he doesn’t. It’s the way that something makes sense in a dream, only for meaning to dissolve when you’re awake. The weight of significance remains; persistent, troubling.  
“Speak, James.”  
“What do you want me to do?” He doesn’t mean to ask that, does he? No- he does. It’s part of the game.  
The game? Why does he think that? He’s sure that he once knew for certain what was happening.  
“Tell us what you’d like to see us do to each other. Speak.”  
He laughs. Whatever else is true or untrue, this is true.  
“I said ‘speak’; not ‘laugh’,” Jervis turns to Jonathan, “I could compel him, but in this case, it’s best if he retain some control over himself. One wants a spontaneous reaction.”  
“This is better,” Jonathan says.  
“Try again, James. Speak.”  
His heart is beating in his skull. If you’re free, but no one knows it, that’s truly being free. Then, you can do whatever you want. No one will blame you. No one will know. They think that you belong to them. Blame is impossible. It requires a will. You have no will. You’re hollow. Someone else made you, and put you here. Mechanically, Jim turns his head and looks at Jervis. “Kiss him. Be… be soft.”  
“James, you old romantic.”  
It’s as though the very air stills. He feels like he’s on stage. If his living room fades and reveals spotlights, an audience, Jim won’t be surprised. Jervis brushes back Jonathan’s hair. Jim can’t watch. He has to.  
“What, now?” Jervis asks.  
“Do that again. Keep doing it.”  
“He’s trying to buy time,” Jonathan says flatly.  
“This is undoubtedly the case, but I see no reason to make haste,” Jervis says softly, looking up at Jonathan, “While it is what James requires, this is also what I desire.”  
“All right,” Jonathan says, sounding, for the first time, like… something. Jim doesn’t know. Jim is stupid. The combined effect of concussions, and… weird drugs, and hypnotism have turned his brain into porridge. He can’t think anymore. He watches. The scene fades into twilight, into sepia. It’s an old movie he once saw. Jervis’ gloved hands are on Jonathan’s face. They both have their eyes closed. Jim could hit their heads together, find his gun…  
Maybe later.  
This is more important. What happens next in the movie? If only Jim could remember. A flash of light, at the bottom of the ocean. “Tell him to take that thing off,” Jim says, nodding at Jonathan’s costume.  
“You may tell him, yourself.”  
“Jonathan. Take that thing off. You,” he looks at Jervis, “do it for him.”  
Jervis smiles. He giggles. He spends about five minutes trying to figure it out until Jim relents, and tells Jonathan to do it, himself.  
“My apologies, Mr. Crane,” Jervis says, “It’s more complicated than what I’m used to.”  
“Don’t call him that,” Jim snaps, “If you’re going to do what you came here to do, call him by his first name.”  
“My, my,” Jervis tuts, “We are certain of what we like, aren’t we. All right, James, what is it to be, now?”  
“Kiss him.”  
Something changes. Maybe it was the costume. Jonathan now just looks like Jonathan. Maybe the spell is broken. Maybe it won’t work anymore. Maybe they’ll just get bored, and kill Jim.  
How did this movie end? It is projected on a rippling sheet of black.  
The answer, the resolution is gnawing at the back of Jim’s brain, something half-remembered. The kind of thing that makes you want to believe in past lives. It wasn’t me. It was someone else. I’m not responsible. Leave me alone.  
He can hear them breathing. The small, wounded sounds that Jervis makes as Jonathan kisses his neck, Jim is sure, are entirely for Jim’s benefit. Jim speaks to Jonathan, now: “Take off his clothes.”  
Jervis laughs.  
Jim doesn’t recall walking to his bedroom, or even telling Jervis where it is. Here, the light is still dimmer. Jervis has lost his jacket and tie. Jonathan’s hands pause at his suspenders. He looks at Jervis. Jervis looks at him. For a moment, Jim is no longer entirely certain that he exists. Jervis isn’t wearing gloves. On his right hand is a violent mass of black stitches. Jonathan holds the hand in his own. Jervis caresses Jonathan’s face. They speak, but Jim isn’t sure that he hears them. The words slip off of Jim's brain as soon as they touch it. He struggles to remember. Maybe they’ve forgotten about him. They’re kissing again, and he didn’t tell them to. They lie down on his bed. He certainly didn’t tell them to do that.  
At first, Jim isn’t sure what he’s seeing. The rippling of pale skin. Shadows that suggest but don’t pronounce. The air is clogged with the sound of other peoples’ breathing. His eyes refocus. They’re naked on his bed. For a second, he can’t tell which one is which. Does Jervis ever brush away Jonathan’s hair, and think of Alice? Jim’s capacity to be ashamed of himself has drifted away. Jervis has his hand between Jonathan’s legs. It’s the hand that Jim shot. The movements are stuttering, uncertain. The fingers don’t fully close, so he has to rub, not grip. A flutter. Does Jervis remember Alice? Now, Jervis has his head between Jonathan’s legs. A pulse. He watches Jervis bring Jonathan to orgasm. Jonathan’s eyes open. He looks at Jim. Jim looks at Jervis. Jim’s voice returns: “Kiss him.”  
“A drink of water, first, if I may,” Jervis says, annoyed, distressed.  
“No. Now.”  
“You should do what he says,” Jonathan says indifferently, and stands to face Jervis.  
Jervis sighs, and kisses Jonathan quickly, with his mouth closed.  
“Open your mouth.” The voice belongs to someone else; not Jim.  
They kiss, Jonathan holding Jervis against him, hands running down Jervis’ body. Jim almost feels it, himself. Jervis’ responses are his own. They belong to Jim. Jim put them there. He’s dreaming this. He saw it in a movie once. He invented these people. They belong to him.  
“Touch him.” It comes out hoarse, the rasp of a twisted old key in a lock clotted with rust. He watches Jonathan’s hand on Jervis’ cock. He watches the motion of Jervis’ hips. He watches Jervis kiss Jonathan’s mouth, his throat. Jervis presses his face into Jonathan’s shoulder, his breathing labored. He speaks, but the only word that Jim can make out is ‘Please’. Jonathan lifts Jervis’ head, kisses him again. Jonathan’s mouth on Jervis’ mouth. Jonathan’s hand on Jervis’ cock. Jervis comes against Jonathan’s thigh. Jim’s heart has left his skull.  
Jonathan says something.  
Jervis’ reply is very clear: “I don’t want to watch you with another man.”  
“We have to do something with him,” Jonathan says.  
“James, tell me the truth: do you want us to make love to you?”  
It’s someone else’s voice. Who knows what they say, or why they say it, or what they want.  
“Would it bother you terribly if we left you there, cold and untouched, and all you could do was watch us enjoy each other?”  
Jim is cold. He is untouched. He’s untouchable. He has no heart. If he has no heart, he doesn’t feel it beating. He doesn’t feel his blood. He doesn’t feel where it goes. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t exhale: “Yes.” Then, “Please.”  
Jervis shrugs. “There you have it. What better punishment is there than to want, and not have? Hmm, James- futile longing isn’t very much fun is, it?”  
Jonathan asks: “What will it be like for him, later on? He won’t remember.”  
“The body remembers, even what the mind cannot, or refuses to. The body knows what it seeks, and it knows the absence of what it seeks. Parts of this may return to him in dreams, and not knowing that these things actually happened, he’ll believe them to be expressions of secret desire. In dreams, he’ll long for us both. He’ll feel sick. He’ll feel ashamed. He’ll be disgusted with himself. Of course, he could resign himself to his desires, learn to live with them. That will never happen.”  
“Will it hurt?” Even speaking in that robotic tone, Jonathan sounds far too young.  
Jervis smiles. “Oh, yes. It’s not as simple as mourning, which has a known cause. Imagine wanting something you can’t even name, missing something you’ve never had. How does one solve such a problem?”  
“We aren’t done with him yet, though, are we? We’re not done.”  
“No, not yet. Even with the pain, he’s lucky to be allowed to watch this. To watch you.” Jervis smiles. A private smile. “It really is a shame that he won’t remember any of this.”  
Oh, yes, you will.


End file.
